Once, I beheld in my hand a dream
A precious thing
Full of tenderness and light
I bid it to grow
That it might no longer rest in my palm
But stand in the world with eyes of its own

Over time it grew
It stretched and pressed
Against the limits of my imagining
Until one day, it demanded to be free
No longer could I hold it in my palm
Just for me

I do not know
If the world is a place more unkind
Than those deepest hollows of my mind
But as I watched my dream, beyond my keeping
Its light faltered, its shape bent
Into a vision unknown to me

It isn't a wicked thing to see
A dream tempered by what is
But nonetheless, the next tender thing I find
I will hold in my palm
a little longer

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 22nd of Lexadian, in the year 16 AC.